Oh well. In this case, this at that time beloved pair of eyes was now concealed by soup-plate-sized black glasses under the brim of the gigantic black hat-stump. I could just barely make out the tip of my present adorata’s nose, and under it the mouth: the beautiful mouth over the poignantly tender (and firm) chin over the stem-like girlish throat over the narrow shoulders and the beloved little breasts: two touchingly young, tender, bud-like handfuls of girlish breast (thoroughly art nouveau, but now covered by the black satin of the art deco dress—so let’s stick to the mouth).

It hovered, blood-red, engraved in the dull white of the cheeks, chin, and throat, in the compact blacknesses of the hat and gown and car-seat leather and nocturnal foliage under the starry sky. It was a strangely isolated, a detached yet delicate piece of anatomy, with a mysterious life of its own. A mute mouth. A mouth without a face. And without an explicable expression, not cheerful and not dismal, not proud, not humble, not yearning, and not scornful, not smart, not stupid: just mouth. Beautiful, human (albeit human in a zoologically universalized manner: the mouth of mankind, of the species of man; and at the same time, something animallike in and of itself: a mouth-animal, shaped like a blossom for mimicry. . .). Where the lips swelled there was a wan, slightly greasy glow: reflection of starlight, sparkling too in the black glasses above and in the curve of the windshield in front and on the nickel fittings of the car door at the side.

And all this was embedded in white roses. For she had untied my bridegroom’s bouquet and strewn the flowers in and around her lap. She sat in white roses, like a black swan. Her black torso loomed out of white rose blossoms into the black night. Above hovered the mouth.

I, however, sat next to her, talking. Talking my heart and soul out of my throat. And while I was talking and talking, about my tremendous love, about my misery and wretchedness, about my lofty goals and wishes—for both of us, to be sure, for both of us!—this mouth suddenly laughed. The red lips gaped, revealing two lines of white teeth, well formed and regular, two glistening rows. And while this mouth laughed, soundlessly and without the shaking of vulgar hilarity, her hand in the black widow-glove reached into the roses, drew out one of the blossoms, and put it to her lips, passing it over them as if to cool them . . . And suddenly, from between the bars of teeth, the tongue shot out and seized the blossom and yanked it into the teeth, which snapped shut and shredded it.

A fascinating spectacle. I depicted it vividly to Schwab. I let him take part in it, and he followed it spellbound, suffering with me as the red mouth devoured the white rose. The mouth kept laughing, soundlessly; small, white tatters of shredded petals stuck to the red lips. By the time the trimming and the stem were all that was left, I had stopped talking, switched on the engine, and was driving Dawn back to the hotel.